Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/78

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Not a silver hair on her temples you trace; Not a spot or wrinkle deform her face; No dotage of time hath impair'd her grace, Or check'd the flow of her tuneful tongue.

Do ye say she is poor, in this land of the free, And that all her votaries are poor as she? It may he so! it may be so! Yet hath she a dowry most rich and proud, A castle that floats on the crimson cloud, Clear sunshine within, when the storm is loud, And a shield of diamond to foil the foe.

Do ye say she is light in the world's esteem,— Like a puff of air, or a fairy-dream?— It may be so! it may be so! Yet hath she an honour more high and dear, From the burning lips of the heaven-taught seer, From the harp of Zion that charm'd the ear; From the choir where the seraph-minstrels glow.